Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #024 – The President I Need

You’ve known her since birth. She’s been there with you in your birth certificate. She helped you stumble your way past grade school math. She fell in love with your ex boyfriend and is now working at your office cubicle. You’ve blamed her for her past mistakes but she also stood up to you and blamed others, on many an occasion. She’s an inseparable part of you, and she will always take you where you need to go, using your own two feet. The rally cries have said it. The spray-painted ads have spelled it out. Millions of blogsters have used it in their hashtags. “I want a president who will never break up me. I want a president who likes the things I like. I want a president like me.”

You, yes, you, can uplift this country: All we need is your word and your votes are ours. Promise, against all odds, that you would put food on your plate, even if just a morsel; Obesity is killing thousands of children all over the world. Promise that you would haggle for tuition fees, which curriculum is the freshest, which one has been bitten by the least worms. Promise that anywhere you go, especially within worthwhile cities like half of Makati and half of Taguig, you will find a home, be it on the foot-wide sidewalks graciously provided so as to await future improvement by hired foreign city planners—or the banks of murky rivers within whose waters live ancient creatures beyond our understanding, which proves that if you can live there, you can live virtually anywhere—or on the islands of brick and dirt that divide the flow of traffic, islands symbolic of our diversity as a nation, roads and oceans swarming with vehicles made in neighboring countries. And promise me, for all that is good and mighty, that you will always compromise despite your dignity, for uplifting a nation’s morale is decidedly better at keeping the peace than pinpointing every single reason why this relationship does NOT work, and that we’re all living on sinking boats, like the actual islands that lay themselves ever so slowly into the ocean under the weight of all these SM malls, like the untended street islands that manage to sustain plant life due to the occasional waist-high flood, like the islands of our hearts, which know the flow of blood better than the skins on our wrists.

Surveys conducted in the better halves of Makati and Taguig have spoken: “I am the best president of myself, and I promise to save myself first, and everything will follow.”


Table of Contents


Blogsperiment #1

The ritual begins. I extend my hand and let it hover over a dusty chalice, one that had seen more use in centuries past yet remains a tool used in but the most sparse of frequencies. I draw blood and begin the pact. The droplet falls and its atoms scrape against interdimensional particles, calling upon the mightiest gods of the cosmos: Physics (classical and quantum), Chemistry, General Science, and even Recess Period, for a reaction of eldritch gravity.

The chalice manifests itself as a blank WordPress draft and my blood isn’t a metaphor for anything. I smear oozing red onto my work desktop, tracing lines from unwritten novels onto slimy monitors caked with the ashes of dead gods. (I have 2 of them. The monitors, not the dead gods.) The thought of being godless fills my blood with greed cells, little malicious spirits that hitchhike the entire length of your blood vessels, attacking leukocytes and other such small universes.

I am summoning twin helix gods, deuce-ex machina, from the depths of the CPU. My raging boner guides them home like a cosmic antenna. My coworker is frozen in fear. I reassure him by licking his lips. Mmm. Mmmm. Cherry lip balm. Mango soap scum. Durian eye drops. Ring ring ring, banana phone. J.D. Salinger’s testicles. I spit everything into the chalice. The ingredients are present. I click Publish and the ritual ends. It’s all over. The gods are upon us. I can stop typing now.